


Any Last Requests?

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 17:53:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a kinkmeme prompt. Powerglide lies dying, and is discovered by a lone Decepticon. Powerglide's final wish is to interface; the Decepticon obliges him. The full prompt can be found <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/tfanonkink/3587.html?replyto=3694851">here</a>.</p><p>Content advice: explicit (mechanical) gore, explicit sticky smut, character death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Last Requests?

Powerglide didn’t pass out when he crashed.

He was awake for all of it: the white-hot sear as a laser beam severed his wing; the desperate transformation; the dizzying, uncontrollable spinning dive; the impact, a blazing white starburst of pain lighting up every micron of his being until he thought he might deactivate from agony alone.

And the aftermath, when he realised that he wasn’t dead, merely dying: lying in a pool of his own spilled fluids, energon mixed with coolant mixed with oil. His comms were down, his back struts bent. One wing was missing and his arm along with it; the other was crumpled, pressing uncomfortably on his helm. His heels scrabbled at the floor, but his hydraulics were severed and he lacked the strength even to move the small fragments of shrapnel that littered the ground.

 _Permanent deactivation imminent_.

The warning flashed, as bright a red as his armour, or at least as bright as his armour used to be. It was streaked now, and scorched, gleaming wet although it hadn’t been raining. Oil dribbled into a puddle of hydraulic fluid, a rainbow shimmering for a moment on the surface. It reminded him of America, so many light years away. A symbol of hope.

 _Life Support at 3.2%. Permanent deactivation in two breems, fifty eight astroseconds and counting_.

He glanced up at the sky. Now was the time for Silverbolt to appear, or Slingshot, Air Raid, Swoop, _anyone_. But all he saw was the dark blur of a seeker, and the incandescent beam of a null ray.

The battle had moved on, not far, but far enough. He could still hear it, the dull thud of incendiaries, the whoops and screams of the fighters. But the steady drip of energon from his throat to the ground was louder by far.

 _Permanent deactivation in two breems. Commending automatic data archiving._

He shivered, as though someone had dipped his processor in liquid nitrogen. Everything was suddenly so crisp and clear. He really was going to die.

* * *

Vortex slunk through the wreckage. This was the last time he listened to Swindle, stupid fragger. This wasn’t worth missing the battle for. There was no weapons cache and there was no energon store. There was just one massive scrapheap of a collapsed building, and a load of rusty machinery that looked older than he was.

And something lying in the rubble, a tangle of broken metal, red paint pitted and scored. He made out an arm that might have been white had it not been coated with energon, a set of chest plates, open and buckled, the pale outline of an insignia just about visible.

A dead Autobot.

No, not dead. Its optics glowed, and it turned its head, slowly, to look at him.

 _Well_ , he thought, grinning behind his facemask, _not dead yet_.

“Recognise me?” Vortex said. “Because I recognise you.”

The Autobot’s faceplates twitched, expression lost behind its own battered mask. Powerglide, it had to be. The aerial acrobat. Not so agile now, neck speared on a splinter of girder, wings useless. Estimated time to deactivation without intervention, about a breem or so, maybe a bit longer. Interesting.

Vortex knelt beside him, a mosaic of odours filling his vents. He retracted his mask and licked a drip of oil from Powerglide’s cheek. The Autobot stared up at him, unflinching.

“I asked you a question,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Powerglide groaned, his voice crackling with damage. “I know you.” He spoke slowly, his tone flat and hopeless, as though he knew what was coming.

Vortex glanced around. The remaining walls were high, the ruin hemmed in by taller buildings. It was secluded enough for a breem. He tapped Powerglide’s battle mask. “I don’t think you’ll be needing this.”

To his surprise, the metal slid back. He’d been expecting more of a struggle, especially from such a temperamental, egotistical glitch as Powerglide. But the Autobot hadn’t even paused.

Vortex smirked; now this was just delicious. The ‘bot’s lips were torn, a mess of ragged metal and severed wires, tiny sparks discharging perilously close to a minute broken energon line.

“You’re dying,” he said. He leant down to nibble Powerglide’s mangled lower lip.

The Autobot hissed, but didn’t – couldn’t – move away. “I know.”

Vortex lifted Powerglide’s remaining hand, and squeezed the fingers one by one. They twitched, still connected to his sensor net; there was life in them, but no strength.

“I’m glad you know,” Vortex told him. The hand reminded him of First Aid, just as pale and smooth, a medic’s hand. He drew the index finger into his mouth and sucked it clean. “Never thought you’d taste so good.”

“What,” Powerglide began, his intakes heaving. “What are you doing?”

“I’m being good to you,” Vortex laughed softly. “Because you’re dying and all. You got any last requests?” He tried the thumb this time, working his glossa along the complex network of sensors on its underside.

Powerglide’s helm juddered, as though he was trying to arch his neck. “Frag me!” he gasped.

“Huh?” That wasn’t how it usually went.

“Frag me,” he repeated. “ _Hard_. I’ve always… always wanted to ‘face with a rotary mech. I’m good, _really_ good. Just please…” He trailed off, optics flickering.

“Hmm…” Vortex licked a trail along Powerglide’s palm. “You’re lucky you’ve got such hot little hands. And red against white, I like that.” He dropped the arm, tiny globs of black and pink spattering against his thigh; Powerglide winced. “Now now,” Vortex snapped. “None of that. You should be grateful. You’re about to get what you want.”

The Autobot was a wreck, twisted and scorched, a chunk missing from his waist, a hole through his knee. It was a shame, Vortex thought, that he had only one arm left, and no strength to that. It would have been nice to have his rotors gripped by hands that fine.

“Hurry, please!” A note of urgency rang in Powerglide’s tone. He must really want this; it was fascinating. Vortex had never encountered anything quite like it. He fanned his main blades, and spun his tail rotors lazily by Powerglide’s face.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I forgot. You’re running out of time.”

He gave Powerglide a thorough once-over, his hands following his optics, tracing the complex mess of mutilated armour, the leaking, sparking wounds and occasional stretches of pristine red paintwork. He smeared them with his palms, then clutched the angular cover of the Autobot’s interface array.

“Open up,” he grinned, less because the compliance thrilled him than because he wanted to see if Powerglide could. The answer came quick and quiet.

“I can’t. Use the-”

“Manual override?” Vortex interrupted. “I’d rather not.” He pried his fingers under the lower edge of the hatch and tore it off. Powerglide howled.

Vortex slammed a hand over his mouth. That was altogether too loud; he didn’t want to get court-martialled for fragging dying Autobots. Not again. “Quiet,” he hissed. “You want a good spiking, don’t you?”

Powerglide nodded, his broken lip scraping against Vortex’s palm.

“Mmmmm…” Vortex shivered, that was more like it. He had a vision of the Autobot biting his fingers, digging those sweet little denta into his plating and making everything buzz. Then his rotors, the dying glossa working over each and every sensor, the ruined lips rough and worshipful. But his spike pressed urgently against the inside of its cover; the Autobot’s valve _did_ look inviting. A little small, perhaps, but then Autobots always were a tight fit. And it wasn’t as though he had time to spare.

Pressing his hand over Powerglide’s face, palm tight to those tingling, split lips, he shoved his knees between the Autobot’s thighs.

“Yes… yes, _please_ ,” Powerglide murmured, and something inside him squealed and whirred as he tried in vain to buck his hips.

Vortex grabbed his aft, choosing his angle. His spike cover released, and he sighed at the chill of the breeze against the nodes. Powerglide’s optics widened as he too appeared to realise the difference in size, but it didn’t stop him attempting to move to meet it. It was pathetic, but endearing in its own way. Vortex pressed the tip of his spike against the Autobot’s opening. Not only small, but a little dry as well. Should be a unique experience.

He pressed the heel of his hand over Powerglide’s throat – directly onto his vocaliser – his fingertips covering the ruin of his mouth, and slammed his spike to the hilt into that tight little valve. And frag it was good; hot and abrasive and oh so constrictive. Powerglide tensed, his fingers curling, his mouth working soundlessly against the pads of Vortex’s fingers. Vortex clutched his aft and began to thrust.

Powerglide shuddered, his valve clenching, his lips curled in a grimace of pain or pleasure – Vortex didn’t care which – as nodes scraped together and his lining stretched.

“Bite me,” Vortex groaned, shoving his fingers past Powerglide’s lips, arching back as the Autobot brought his denta together, tight as his valve. “Harder!” Vortex ordered, picking up the pace as Powerglide’s valve began to lubricate. Their hips clanged together, the sensations shifting from abrasion to current to pure, molten ecstasy.

Then Powerglide gasped, his valve convulsing, and his denta clamping on Vortex’s fingertips.

“Frag yes!” Vortex snarled, and gripped him by the waist, hauling him upright. He continued to thrust, plunging his spike as deep as it would go. The Autobot’s frame ran with energon, a heady stream of glowing pink trickling fresh from his throat. Vortex lapped at it, the broken fuel line scratching his glossa, the fumes rising to fill his vents. Fuel trickled down his throat and he swallowed, ripping at the pipe with his denta, encouraging the flow to increase.

The Autobot’s head lolled, a low moan juddering through his lips. The echoes of his overload carried into Vortex’s spike, his nodes still sparking at each frantic shove of his hips.

Vortex tore his fingers from Powerglide’s mouth, and felt blindly between the crumpled metal of his chest plates. It was a mess, but he was used to messes. Mangled primary pump, twisted lines, pipes uncoupled which should have been connected, and everything covered all over in a slick of mingled fluids. He laughed, exultant, into Powerglide’s throat, as his fingers wrapped around the Autobot’s laser core. It pulsed weakly, a flutter of residual energy, already fading.

He gripped it tight, not crushing but waiting. Energon flooded his mouth, and streamed down his throat. It was still warm as Powerglide’s fuel pump gave a final, frantic push. Vortex’s spike quivered, and he tensed, holding on as the laser core blazed for one brief, glorious moment, scalding in his hand.

It died as his spike surged, a rush of current searing through his circuits. As the overload tore through him, he clung to the Autobot’s cooling frame, his own armour scorching, his rotors quivering with the aftershocks.

The laser core crumpled, empty metal bending easily in his grip. He withdrew slowly, his fans cycling and vents heaving, and retracted his spike. He could clean up later, when he didn’t have to account for where he’d been.

He let the Autobot drop, falling on his back in a pool of his own fluids, exactly as Vortex had found him. Then he pulled out a laser scalpel, and carved a quick, neat path to Powerglide’s databanks. He excised the circuitry, extracting it in one whole block. With any luck, the data would be uncorrupted. Although whether he gave it to Onslaught or sold it to Swindle would depend on how much trouble he was in for going missing in the first place.

He stashed the databanks in a compartment, and headed off towards the distant roar of battle.


End file.
